


study buddy

by peachyteabuck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Boot Worship, Dom/sub, F/F, Light Angst, Mentions of childhood bullying, Oral Sex, Postmodernism, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drug Use, Sexting, Spanking, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, mdlg, sex worker reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-09-07 12:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16854139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: after crushing on you since freshman orientation, Natasha finally gets the guts to ask you help you pass her postmodern lit midterm, to which you agree.





	1. i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sitting next to natasha was a coincidence, her picking you to help her graduate was not.

You’ve always been nerdy, quiet, timid. “Bookish,” is what your mom always called you when you came home crying because the other kids called you “four eyes” and “nerd” and “geek” and whatever else their devious little brains could come up with on any given day. “Bookish” sounded better than “a total loner who placed all of her self-worth into school because she refused to find it anywhere else,” so you ran with it. College is your safe place, a place where other smart, hardworking people studied and worked and wrote and did the other studious, fun things that you love to do.

All of this probably made you especially appealing to Natasha: a notorious flame-headed partier covered in tattoos and piercings and always wore these short, black skater skirts with fishnets or forest green tights and thin sweaters where you could see the outline of her black, lace bras and, and… _God_. She makes your knees weak. Every time you saw her on campus - whether it be in the caf or walking to class or hanging out with her equally-cool friends or in the campus newsletter that your mom always forwards you accepting some award for whatever it is she does with whatever it is she’s majoring in.

Somehow in the middle of your junior year, you both ended up in the same Postmodern literature class.

That particular professor (a middle-aged man with turtle shell glasses and ties that never fit  _quite_ right) didn’t have a seating chart. This normally was fine, whatever, you just sat in the perfect seat (conditions for the ominous “perfect seat” include but are not limited to: close to an outlet, unobstructed view of any place the professor/TA would write information, and close to an exit).

But that morning, your alarm  _just so happened_  to not go off, causing your twenty minute nap to turn into an hour-long slumber. In turn, you got stuck in the very back center of the classroom, which both happened to meet only one of your qualifications of the perfect seat (down the center line of the classroom) and was to the immediate right of the heart-stopping hell raiser.

As you moved towards the open seat, she scowled at you.

At first you thought it was because, for some reason of which you could not comprehend, she did not like you. For some weird and unknowable justification, a woman of you Had Never Met and Had Never Spoke To was scowling at you like your dog back home scowls at the mailwoman.

It wasn’t until you had inched closer that you had realized that she was using the seat as a footrest, and that now that you were sitting there she had no other choice than to place her her feet onto the floor.

“Thanks,” you said shyly as you pulled out her laptop.

“No problem,” she grumbled as she adjusted her sweater so that it was covering her bruised collarbones.

Everything went by exactly how you’d expect it to. You took notes, exchanged a few “hello”s, “bye”s, “excuse me”s, the stuff like that you said more out of compulsion than anything else. Once she asked you for a pen, but that was pretty much it.

It was the third time you had that class when you noticed  _it_.

You were furiously taking notes on your laptop when you noticed her watching you and your fast fingers with an intense stare. You didn’t try to engage her, too focused on Jean Baudri-something and the simulacra and Disneyland and all that nonsense and oh my  _god_ you were totally going to fail. Who the fuck thinks of all this shit? And why do you need to learn it? You’re a fucking astrophysics major, there is no reason why Guattari and his slightly more famous counterpart should be on  _any_ of your syllabi. 

But of course, you forgot about that reading and comprehension credit. Of course you did. So, now, you were stuck in some godforsaken lecture class about anti-capitalist nut jobs saying crazy shit so they can make big bucks writing stupid books and stupid papers on whatever the hell some guy with some tenure that lasts too long is babbling about.

The problem, though, was that it was  _quite_ hard to focus on how angry you were that you had to take this class  _and_ take comprehensive notes  _and_ resist sneaking quick glances at Natasha to see if she was still watching you like a hawk watches his prey.

What’s worse was that the same thing happened  _every time_ you had that class. She’d take notes at her own pace while you typed like a madman, trying to catch everything the professor said and about thirty minutes in you’d feel her eyes burning into you.

“I just,” you sighed as you flopped on your bed one night. “I just I don’t get it, what’s up with her?”

Wanda’s voice, muffled as your phone’s speaker became covered in your fluffy blanket, sounded equally concerned and annoyed.“I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”

The first time you two  _really_ spoke was (according to your Google calendar alerts) about a month before the midterm.

The day’s lecture was nothing short of ridiculously dense and mind-boggling. To cope, you had decided you needed coffee like Freud needed to get laid by someone other than a family member. Aptly, you decided to grab an iced chai from the cafe-stand-thing near the lecture hall. As you were waiting in the (surprisingly) long line and thinking about what you wanted to do after you got back to your apartment, Natasha came up behind you.

“Boo!” she whisper-yelled directly into your ear, startling you and almost causing you to almost drop your phone. You squeaked a little in surprise, but luckily no one gave you any looks; they were all too busy looking at their phone/laptop/tablet screens or studying to notice your small, high-pitched noise. Even the person right in front of you was too focused on scrolling through Instagram to give you the time of day.

Natasha simply giggled at your fear, causing you pout and step a little farther away from her. She didn’t like that. “Aw, c’mon little mousey. Don’t act like that…”

The pet name caught you off guard, very off guard. “I…I don’t even know you,” you managed to stutter out.  _Nice one. Smooth._

As the line moved closer to the counter, she took the opportunity to whisper in your ear again. It sent shivers down your spine, ones you failed to hide in any sense of the word. “Yes, you do. We’ve sat next to each other this entire semester,” you step one place in line closer to the counter and struggle to remember your incredibly basic order. “And  _I_ know  _you_ …”

You coughed to try to hide your fluttering heart. It didn’t work. “No you don’t…”

Natasha tsked before she continued. “I know that you’re smart and you take really good notes, one Google Doc per class, each colored accordingly per subject. I know that you’ve aced every test you’ve ever taken in this damned school. I also know you like to help people,” she finished her sentence right as you stepped up to the counter. “So why don’t you help  _me_?”

You didn’t answer until after you had gotten your coffee and she had gotten her iced tea and some baked good you didn’t bother remembering. When you tried to hand the cashier your meal plan card, she offered her debit card instead.

“Thanks,” you mumbled as you hurried to find a straw.

“Don’t worry about it,” Natasha said lowly, smiling devilishly. She followed you to one of the tables in the far back, surrounded by kids who were wearing headphones of varying size and noise-cancelling quality. Surely they wouldn’t be listening in to your conversation, right? It’s a pretty big school, no one really cared about the two of you interacting…right?

Once you knew you were safe, you snapped. “ _What do you want, Natasha_?” You hissed through your teeth.

She seemed a little hurt by your tone, her straight back hunching a little. “I want you to help me study for the upcoming midterm…”

 _Oh_ , you thought as you sighed. Of course she did. You’ve been your peers’ “study buddy” since your freshman year of high school. Once your sophomore year, a kid called you a “boring-ass, nerdy-ass queer” and then asked you for the notes for your Chemistry class immediately after. The duality of man truly can be baffling. “And why should I help you?”

Natasha shrugged in a suspiciously nonchalant way. “Listen, I can pay you. I’m asking you because I need it, this is my last course I need before I can graduate…” Slowly but surely, one of her feet began its trail up your skinny-blue-jean-clad leg. “Plus, I can help  _you_  with something, too.”

Now you felt a little hurt. Just because you put grades over everything else in your life didn’t make you a prude, or a virgin, or inexperienced. You like sex, you’re just…busy. Very busy And tired. _So tired._

But you didn’t have time to feel hurt. Of all the things that affected your life, being broke was right next to your gluten allergy. You couldn’t afford to give up incredibly easy money, whether that came from helping the woman of your dreams study for the weirdest class you’ve ever taken, or putting everything you hadn’t touched in a week on eBay so you could buy food, or selling nudes to people on the internet (Hey, that techie experience from high school had to be used for something, right? And if that something helped you take decent photos of your tits so you could keep your decent credit score, then so be it).

So maybe you weren’t prudish, but you still could’ve used the dough. The decision seemed incredibly clear.

The long pause made Natasha a tad nervous, which caused her to bite her plump bottom lip.  _God, what you wouldn’t have done to kiss her._ “So, will you help me…or…”

You rubbed your temples and nodded, scribbling your number and some basic information on a pale yellow Post-It note you pulled from your backpack. “Just…text me later tonight. I have a study session with a few friends of mine, but after that I can make a schedule-”

Natasha barked out a small laugh as she read the note. “You make study schedules?”

You glared at her, slinging your heavy backpack over your shoulders. “Yes, and if you don’t want to delay your graduation because you didn’t bother to learn enough about the death drive to prevent yourself from succumbing to it, you’re going to follow it.”

She genuinely looked confused as she stayed seated. “What’s the death drive?”

“I’m going to assume you’re joking so I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” you groaned out before you grabbed your coffee and walked away. You avoided looking over your shoulder at her as you began the ten-minute trek to your apartment, trying to stay focused on not thinking about what just happened or NatashaRomanoff or why the Hell you decided to do this or-

For the first time in your life - you failed. Miserably.

The second you placed the key in the slightly-rusted lock and turned it, the door flew open. Behind it sat all of your wonderful friends, faces painted with concern.

“Why are you late!?” Wanda squaked. It was a valid question, you’re usual incredibly punctual. When you were in fourth grade your teacher told you that “early is on-time, on-time is late, and late is unacceptable.” Her old, dry voice still haunts you when you don’t leave early enough to get somewhere.

You just shrugged, grabbing a Little Debbie’s cake thingy from the depleted snack pile. If you couldn’t squander your feelings with work, sugar was always the next best thing. “Some girl from my pomo class asked me for something, so I got stuck at the coffee shop with her.”

When you all study together in your apartment, it’s much more relaxed than when you meet with formal groups in libraries. Sure, you have stuff to do, but you also have gossip to spread. Lots of gossip. Sometimes that gossip is about a party on campus, or a teacher who said something dumb in class. Sometimes, and those times were rare, the gossip was about one of your own lives. Each time it happened each of you felt like you had struck gold, pure  _gold_. And with the possibility that it could involve you and your love life, the whole squad was going ape.

“Wait,” Bruce asked between bites of greasy pizza. “Who was it?”

You shrugged as you toed off your sandals and plopped down on the floor, using the couch as a rest for your back. “Natasha Romanoff.”

A collective, almost-comedic gasp escapes all of their mouths. Well, all except Tony. He seemed surprised, but wasn’t as upfront about it.

“HER? WHY?  _WHAT_?” Wanda shrieked, almost causing her elbow to over her empty coffee cup. She made a decent effort to make sure it didn’t hit the carpet, even though a) the poor, old floor covering had already stained and b) the cup was empty.

“Oh God, she’s going to recruit you into a gang or something,” Steve says softly, scared that somehow the subject of their conversation would hear them. Like somehow between when you walked in the door and when her name was mentioned she had bugged the place.

You rubbed the joints of your fingers, a nervous habit you picked up after your broke three of them in a cycling accident in third grade (you were trying not to hit a turtle, who ended up just being a rock). “She’s not like that! She just wants me to help her study, and she’d promise she’d do something for me of equal value.”

Wanda sighed. “It’s not that we don’t think your verbal contract is illegitimate, it’s just that her friends are so…”

“Scary…creepy…sleazy…” Steve’s nose wrinkled as he spoke. “Strange…devil worshippers.”

“Hey,” Tony almost spilled his blue gatorade on the white blanket he had draped over his lap as he put his hands up in defense of himself. “I’m one of those people!”

“You’re not really helping her case, Tony,” Bruce told him.

Tony shrugged, took a drink, then went back to his reading. More accurately, he turned back to doodling in the margins of his $400 biochemistry textbook.

As Steve went to studying his flashcards, he mumbled, “I think some of them are actual witches.” As a hush fell over the room, and the female R&B you put on filled the space, you don’t try to correct them. Bucky wore too much black and burns too much incense, Clint wore too many Satan’s stars. You had nothing to refute the witch accusation, so you didn’t really try to. You just opened your laptop to writing the rough draft of a paper due in a week or so. Normally, the words of a rough draft could come easily. But for some reason, you just weren’t feeling it. Any other time, you were all about talking about groundbreaking women in STEM. Now though, all you could think about was your classmate.

What did she see in you? Why was she so Hellbent on having  _you_ tutor her? How did she think she was going to pay you?

If you couldn’t stop thinking about her you were going to break all of your fingers again with how often you were cracking and flexing them. You sighed. “Look, she said she’d pay me, okay? And I can’t afford to turn down anyone who wants something I do every day anyway.”

“She’s right, we need to lay off of her,” Steve said. Always the voice of reason, that one. You really do love your friends, even if they sometimes were assholes.

“Yeah, we need to let Natasha do that,” Tony mumbled.

Scratch that, you don’t like them anymore.

As you scoffed, you turned back to your laptop in a desperate attempt to bury yourself in your work. If you were lucky enough, maybe it would kill you so you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this anymore.

Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw Tony smirking as he stared at you with one eyebrow cocked. You ignored him, though, for the sake of your sanity and peace of mind.

♡ ♡ ♡

The loud snap in front of her face was enough to make Natasha drop the rest of her muffin, the overly-sugary blueberry treat meeting the dirty kitchen hardwood before anyone could save it.

“Earth to Natashaaaaa,” Bucky cooed as he waved his prosthetic hand in her face.

She growled when she noticed her snack has fallen prey to her nasty habit of spacing out and her loose fingers. “ _What_?”

“Ooo  _oooo-_ oh,” Sam called in a sing-songy voice from across the kitchen as he mixed something in a large bowl. He was baking brownies, probably as a stress coping-mechanism or something. “Our little Nat’s got a crush!”

Natasha growled but didn’t say anything. Normally she was good at hiding her emotions, but that wasn’t her main focus. Her main focus is thinking about  _you_. And your flowery perfume. And your thick-rimmed glasses. And your plump lips and thighs. And the cute stuffed animal key chains on your backpack. And-

“Wait,” Clint was wearing only a pair of boxers and a headband. Was that Natasha’s headband?  Why was he wearing headband? “Is this about the girl in that class you have to take before they give you the little slip of paper you went, like, $25,000 in debt for?”

Sam gasped, abandoning the smooth mixture. “Wait, what girl? I feel left out of the loop here…”

Bucky seized the moment to take a small grab at the batter, successfully getting a fingertip of the chocolate before Sam smacked his hand. He sucked the concoction into his mouth as he talked.“Natasha hasn’t stopped drooling over her since freshman orientation, but has  _really_ had it bad since sophomore year when she got really drunk and almost fell off that porch at frat party. You know, the one Clint stole toilet paper from once everyone got drunk…?”

Sam nodded as he poured the batter into a pan. “Oh, yeah, that one. Homegirl got super,  _super_ drunk - like, I’m talking frat boy post-winning a football game drunk - and tried to eat the wrappers of some cupcake that were thrown on the ground while yelling, and I quote ‘I’M SO STRESSED OUT! SOMEONE SAVE ME FROM MYSELF!’…Tony ended up bringing her back to her apartment. Then they later became friends? Or something? I think they bonded over theoretical physics or some other ridiculously nerdy thing.”

Bucky mouthed an “aah” before he hoisted himself onto the counter. His bare feet dangled. Natasha decided to watch her friend’s muscular legs as a slight distraction from her mental state.

No one said anything else, waiting for some response from Nat herself.

Her voice was strained and dry as she spoke. “Yeah, she sits next to me in the back of that lit class I’m being forced to take…said she’d help me get a good grade on the midterm coming up.”

Clint barked out a deep, loud laugh - almost making Sam drop the precious brownies batter.“You, Natasha Romanoff, asked for  _help_? From a  _stranger_!?”

Natasha didn’t say anything, just grumbled to herself and grabbed a container day-old takeout from the fridge. She shoved the (surprisingly) still moist fried rice into her mouth, trying to keep anyone from asking her any more questions that could lead to her being embarrassed further. It’s the age-old trick, don’t want to be talk to, just shovel lots of food into your face hole!

It sort of worked. Bucky caught onto how uncomfortable she was and tried to shift the conversation to something more…not about Nat. That also  _kinda_ worked :they all talked about the perfect way to cook popcorn for awhile. That lasted  _right_ up until Tony came through the door three hours later. By that time, they were all doing something vaguely school related: Natasha was trying to get her study materials together for when she met with you the next day, Clint was taking notes in a notebook, Sam was doing something with highlighters… _tons_ of highlighters, and Bucky was writing an essay on his laptop. Or maybe bookmarking porn videos for later…who knows. Either way, he looked  _really_ focused.

“Hel-lo!” He sing-songed, loudly dropping his heavy backpack on the wooden floor. “Daddy’s home and he’s got some ne-ews!!” None of them moved to greet him or ask him about what he had in store for them. Tony dutifully ignored their bored expressions and continued to prance around the home, taking bites of this and that as he went - the last bite of Nat’s Chinese food, some of the leftover batter from the bowl, some of Clint’s granola bar. Eventually, he landed behind the part of the couch Natasha was sitting at and waved his hands around to gather the attention of the rest of the men. “I have an announcement,” he proclaimed dramatically. It was like a politician was announcing his run for president, a sex scandal, and that he was declaring war on every country in the European Union all at once “The lovely, studious woman of which has agreed to help our struggling little Natalia with her Postmodern Literature midterm has, I do declare with all of the goodness left in my shriveled little heart,”

Sam groaned and rolled his eyes. “Get to the point, Stark.”

Tony huffed, but continued (faster this time). “Fine, fine. Whatever…” he took a moment to roll his own eyes before continuing. “She has a crush on Natasha. A giant one. Like, it’s embarrassing. And it hurts me, physically. You’ve got to do something about it, kid. If not for her, then for me.”

Natasha stayed silent, a little stunned.

Scratch that, very stunned. Sure, she also had a crush on you. She just never thought it would be reciprocated.

“Tony,” Bucky finally looked up from his screen. “What in fresh hell are you talking about?”

Tony sighed, voice much slower than before. “So, apparently the tiny little 5.0 angel that has blessed our little Natasha Romanoff with the gift of graduating on time has taken a special liking to our ex-ballerina, current-punk. She’s whipped, totally. Absolutely. It almost hurts me, to think I haven’t noticed this earlier…”

Still silent, Natasha picked at her cuticles with her teeth. She’d sat next to you for half a freaking semester, how did she not notice? She’d been flirting with you for years, every chance she got since she saw you at freshman orientation almost four years ago. She still remembered what you were wearing: some mustard yellow sundress with beige wedge heels. Your unruly hair was piled on top of your head and a thin black headband did a decent job of keeping the loose strands out of your face. Natasha remembered jack shit about that day, with the exception of you.

Tony noticed her uncharacteristic quietness, and attempted to comfort her. “If it makes you feel better, she totally wants to go on a date with you and all that cute heteronormative nonsense.”

It didn’t, not in the slightest. It made Natasha’s heart quicken and palms sweat thinking about actually making a move. Sure, she’d tried to spark conversations with you in class all the time, and junior year when she was working at that tech counter in the library she called you some variation of “pretty” every day until your laptop screen had been fixed (at that point in your academic career you had one of those laptops had turned into a tablet, and apparently some kid had tripped you on your way down the steps to an important presentation of your research on black holes).

So what changed? And why did it take so long for either of you to make a move (even if that move meant putting the last credit you needed to graduate in the hands of someone who probably didn’t know she existed until that day)?


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you and natasha meet up to study. things do not go as planned.

The first time that you and Natasha met up to study, it went down without a hitch. It went down without anything out of the ordinary happening, without a single thing of note. It was unmemorable, just like how you were hoping. You took her to (what in your opinion was) the best university library, which had the perfect spot for group studying. It wasn’t too loud, so it wasn’t distracting or too obnoxious. But it also wasn’t too quiet, so you weren’t getting shushed constantly. It allowed small snacks and liquids (in closed containers, of course) but was never too messy. It was also not super well known, so it was a great spot for studying for major tests and exams.

You went over how to use Quizlet’s learn and test functions so she could study alone, then helped her with some basic vocab and the main authors within postmodernism. After two hours, Nat’s attention seemed to be fading, so you made up some excuse about having to leave and gave her a list of things she’d needed to study (the roots and evolution of postmodernism) before the next time you’d help her study.

Right before you were about to leave, Natasha cried after you. “Wait!” She whisper-yelled. You turned around so fast your ponytail almost hit you in the face. “When do you want to do this again?”

You shrugged, pulling your planner from your bag. “I’m pretty open in about five days. What about you?”

She grabbed her phone from her back pocket, obviously opening her own calendar. “I…  
She squinted and looks almost annoyed at her own schedule. “…don’t know, I can text you by tonight and let you know when I’m free…” Natasha noticed your deep, anxious inhale and attempted to scramble for recovery from her failed nonchalant persona. “If that’s okay with you.”

Normally you’re obsessed with planning things weeks in advance and sticking to a tight schedule. For some reason, though, you were okay with this. You could break your obsessive habits when it came to Natasha, which both surprised and scared you. Any other time, with any other person, you would’ve hounded them until they gave you some semblance of a tentative date. If you didn’t, nausea would plague you until you could calm it by meticulously redoing notes or editing a friend’s essay (usually Steve, as he was always one for switching between tenses).

The fluttering in your chest wasn’t anxiety, though. It was…something you couldn’t describe.

“Yeah,” you said, voice almost breaking with nervousness. “Yeah, I’m okay with that.”

The second time you met up with her went a  _little_ different than before.

She had requested you meet her in her apartment in the mid-afternoon, right after her two hour 1:00 pm class. You complied, even though the thought of being in her home made your heart beat fast and your palms sweat.

The first ten minutes went smoothly, just like the first time. You talked about the intersection of postmodern literature and critical race theory and got through ten pages of bell hooks’ “Postmodern Blackness.” Everything was going great.

Somehow after that, it all went downhill.

You’re not sure exactly  _when_ control of the situation escaped you, as the craziness of your reality didn’t hit you until Natasha started singing along to the Post Malone song that was playing from her cracked iPhone. Her voice was the thing that brought you back into the moment, cut through your brain fog and made you realize how cold the toilet seat was and how uncomfortable it felt to just be sitting there, watching Natasha.

Slowly, easily, she brought the trimmers to her head - cutting off the growth there. Short, deep red strands fell to the floor like dying leaves in autumn, grouping on the floor in small, scattered piles. You watched in extreme interest - your eyes wide and trained on her every move. You’re like a teenage boy watching lesbian porn for the first time, fascinated with everything she does or says. You’re even watching the blunt that rests between her teeth.

Natasha caught you staring and smirked.  “You want something, honeybee?” She asks, waving the clippers in your face. “Interested in a little trim?”

You squeaked and your head vibrated - rather than shook - in denial. Your mind froze like a computer with too many documents open:  _Pretty girl, drugs, something that would make you different and distinguishable from your peers, really pretty girl, do you have a test on Monday?, small bathroom, open window, really really pretty girl, open door, Natasha is looking at you…say something you idiot!_

You pulled your knees up to your chest to try and make yourself smaller, try and make yourself disappear, try and make yourself not have to answer the question. “N-no…my mom-”

“Your mommy what?” Natasha cut you off as she unplugged the razor. Her half-done sides were patchy, meant to be fixed up when she  _wasn’t_ high off her ass. Her black workout shorts barely reached down to her fingertips, which made her muscular thighs and sculpted ass all that more mouth-watering. It distracted you, causing your mouth to dry up and brain to fry.

You gulped. It sounded so much worse when you spoke it out loud: Your mom sent you a nice chunk of change every month to keep you from taking out too many student loans, which is nice of her. But your bank account being in the black came with rules. Strict ones, too: No piercings, no tattoos, no hair dye, keep your grades up, no boys, don’t be a whore, et cetera.

If you were going to break that last one, you might as well keep the other ones in check.

How you were going to explain that to Natasha escaped you as she spoke again. “Do you like following orders from your mommy?”

The snap back to reality made you realize that Natasha was now inches from where you were positioned on her toilet. Your heart picked back up to its lightning speed, your breath quickened, your chest tightened.

Oh  _shit_ , how did she know? Did she have some kind of superpower that could identify kinks? Either way, all you could do was freeze.

And bite at your bottom lip.

But mostly freeze.

She stepped a little closer to you, effectively popping your personal space bubble. “You want to please Mommy,  _don’t you_ , little one?”

All you could do was nod.

“Good girl,” Natasha praises went straight to your core. Carefully, as if she was trying to pet some feral cat in an alleyway, she dragged her thumb across your bottom lip before she tenderly pushed it into your mouth. You knew exactly what to do: you ran your tongue over it and sucked aggressively on the tender skin. All you wanted to do was impress her, make her sweet voice sing more sweet words to you. “Oh…” she cooed. “Showing off, are we?”

You nodded, her thumb coming out of your mouth with a wet  _pop_. You chased after it, trying to get your lips around it again. Clearly, though, Natasha had other plans as a high pitched whine escaped your throat and your eyes screwed shut with arousal. She tsked, using the same hand to grab at your face, forcing your attention to her. “Shh…be good for Mommy…”

Your eyes remained locked with hers, ready and prepared to do whatever she asked of you.

You’d offered her your complete submission, and it was  _so hot_  to the both of you. Natasha’s hand still locked on your jaw, she wordlessly lowered you to cold tile floor. As the seconds ticked, your knees began to strain. Natasha noticed but said nothing - she was in a trance, your uncomfortable position be damned. It was then you realized that while you were still wearing your white tennis skirt and a loose, long-sleeved shirt that’s red had faded to pink your freshman year, she was still in her thick, pleather boots, worn fishnets, and large flannel styled as a dress. The pair of you were poster children for some incredibly erotic start to a gay porn posted on a trendy lesbian site. Cheesy titles flashed before your eyes in trashy neon pink: “EXPERIENCED PUNK DOMMES NERVOUS SCHOOL GIRL,” “LESBIAN (DISASTER) PORN,” “(B)ECUMMING IN POSTMO(D)ERNI(S)(M).”

A moment of silence fell over you, neither sure what to do next. In a moment of adrenaline masked as confidence, you leaned forward and crumpled onto the ground, bracing yourself on her toned lower things. Tentatively, you placed feather-light kisses just above your painted fingertips. They were just a test, a way to to see if she would tell you “no” or not.

Her breathy moans were a clear signal to keep going, so you did. As you made your way up and along her pantyline, they become more vocal as you ghosted over her outer lips and, after that, her clit. The fishnets made it harder to pleasure Natasha, but if there’s anything you love: it’s a challenge.

Her hands flew to the back of your head, holding you in place by your hair and keeping you from stopping. In truth, you wouldn’t, didn’t, would never dream of it. Soon, you moved her panties aside to mouth at her soaked slit.

Natasha kept moaning as you licked up and down from her clit to the bottom of her aching cunt, two fingers easily slipping in to brace against her g-spot. The other you kept flat against the back of her thigh for balance. As she arched her back and ground against your face, you moved with her - two bodies moving as one in some beautiful bastardization of dance.

Just as your jaw began to feel sore, Natasha shifted you so that she could support herself against the cold, white-tiled wall. As she shifted, her boot ended up under your clothed core. You’re never one to miss an opportunity, especially one as golden as that.

In an almost animalistic manner, you began grinding over the thick material to try and find your pussy some relief, moaning at you moved over the thick stitching and laces. Natasha didn’t notice that you were pleasuring your until you broke away from her clit, moaning lewdly into her hot skin.

“Oh, you dirty little thing,” She panted, breathless words struggling to find their way out of her throat as she spoke. You didn’t stop fucking your fingers in and out of her, but your mouth seemed to favor hanging open and letting out pitiful noises to suckling on her bud.  “Be careful, if you mess up my boots I’ll make you clean them off…”

The thought of that made you cry out even louder, deeper, stronger than before.

“Mommy please,” you begged. You had no idea what you were begging for - your mind was too cloudy to focus on anything else but N _atashaNatashaNatashaNatashaNatashaNatashaNatasha._  She took the almost tender moment to push the hair out of your face and smooth her thumbs over your eyebrows as you took a moment to catch your breath and accept the small praises that left her lips. Quickly, though, you two were back to rutting against each other like dogs in heat. At one point, you think the bathroom mirror had even fogged up.

You two stayed like that - you on the floor and her against the wall - until you milked a third orgasm from her. You wanted to continue, but before you could do anything else she nudged you off of her with her knee.

“C’mon baby girl,” she mumbled. “let’s get us to bed.”

Wordlessly, you followed her on the short walk to her bedroom. On the way you both stripped completely - clothes falling where you two felt like it, bare flesh burning in the heat of the moment. You didn’t think you’d ever been more turned on in your life; the pet names, the control, the power imbalance, the hot woman about to fuck you so hard you’d see stars. As soon as your back hit the messy sheets, she began to crawl over you to straddle your bare hips. You mewled, attempting to reach for her again.

“No, no, no,” She brushed your hands away. A strangled cry escaped your lips, any sort of verbal language failing to form. “No touching yet.” All you could do is pout, eyes wide and eyebrows turned upward. Natasha tsked, leaning down closer to your slick-covered face. “You gotta tell me what you want, baby girl…you’ve got to tell Mommy what you want her to do to you…” She purred in your ear, teasing you. It sent shivers down your spine, visibly shaking your whole body.

At first, it felt like your brain has short-circuited. Your mouth gaped open like a fish out of water.

But then something clicked and it’s like the words couldn’t come fast enough. “The third class we had together you wore this dark denim jacket with all of these patches and it has this tear in the left shoulder and I remember seeing it on the second class right before a break and thought about offering to fix it for you but I realized that it was probably purpose but,” A devilish smile crept onto Natasha’s face. Oh, she thought to herself.  _This is gonna be good_. “Ever since then all I’ve wanted was for you to fuck me while you wore it, fuck me with your fingers or a strap on or  _anything_. I wanted to be totally naked with you in that jacket and tug at the fabric and-”

Natasha planted a small kiss onto your swollen lips - one that didn’t last  _nearly_ long enough for your liking - then sauntered off to her messy, disorganized closet. As she stood facing away from you, you took a moment to stare at her back and ass, taking in her sculpted body and the tattoos that adorn it. There weren’t many - being a broke college that’s exactly what you expected from her. The ones that were on her body, though, were meticulously done. If you had the energy to speak absent a command from Natasha, you would’ve asked her about them…but if anything was going to leave you at that moment, it was going to be a moan.

One did escape, too, from deep in your chest once you saw her turn around with a deep purple strapon in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. As you threw your head back in ecstasy, you saw a ball gag sticking out of one of her drawers.

 _For later,_  you promised yourself. Right now, you wanted to be able to make as much noise and kiss as much skin and suck as many bruises onto your partner’s soft, pale body as you could manage.

Natasha slipped the toy on with the ease and confidence of someone who’d had practice, lots of it. It was sexy; you were used to hooking up with people who weren’t as experienced in bed. This was a rare treat, one you planned to indulge in fully.

Natasha loomed over you, her limbs boxing in your spent body. She watched you carefully for your reaction as she folded your right leg up to your chest and placed the other over her shoulder, worried and ready to stop at any sign of displeasure.

You complied easily, which she noticed in an instant.  “Ooh, you’ve done this before, haven’t you princess…” She kissed the shell of your ear as she eased into you. The dildo that was attached was ridged and girthy, and it felt  _so fucking good._  All you could do was nod and moan and try to catch the drool that had began to fall from the corner of your mouth. Her thrusts were strong, hard, purposeful. Her hands were on your wrists, pinning you down on her bed. It frustrated you endlessly and you wiggled under her, an attempt to break free from her grasp. All you wanted to do was rub your clit because holy fuck you were  _so fucking close_  to the edge. All you needed was-

“Watchu want baby? Told you, you gotta use. Your. Words,” Her last few words were punctuated with particularly deep thrusts, each one caused you to moan louder and louder. God, you wanted to cry it was so good. You might’ve too, if you didn’t get to cum soon.

“I… _please_ touch my clit, Mommy,” is all you could get out. Truthfully, you wanted so much more. You wanted her to choke you, mark you, scratch you, pull your hair. You wanted her to make you overstimulate you until you cried, to ride her, sit on her face. You wanted her to call you a whore, you wanted her to spank you and spit in your mouth and write on your thoroughly fucked body and collar you and fuck you until you couldn’t walk.

But most of all, you just wanted her to make you cum.

Her grin was sinister, just pure evil. You never understood the phrase “looking like a cat that ate the canary” until that day, until you saw her wide grin and the fire in her eyes.

“Mm, of course I can, baby,” she cooed. Then she grabbed your wrists and placed them above your head. “As long as you keep these arms up…if it so much as  _twitches_ , I stop. Okay?”

“Yes, Mommy,” you replied as you grabbed at the fabric under your wrinkled fingertips.

Natasha artfully timed the quick circles she made around your swollen clit with her harsh thrusts. It was so good, almost too good. Just a few more, just one more, and you could cum. You can do it - you tell yourself. Just a  _little longer_  and-

Just as you finally reached the peak, she started to kiss and nibble at the soft, sensitive skin of your neck. At that moment, when her teeth touched your pulse point, you cracked. In the moment of both weakness and pleasure, you clawed at her back as the best orgasm you’d ever experienced ripped its way through you like a jagged saw tearing you apart. It was painful in the best way possible, the way only a perfect orgasm could be.

But you’d now broken one of Natasha rules, and the second her brain registered that you were digging your perfectly manicured nails into her spine, she jerked herself away from you. The emptiness of your aching pussy made you cry out, tears now spilling down your cheeks like a waterfall.

“Oh, no no no little one…” Natasha tsked as she unhooked the strapon and pet over your shaking form. “You know what bad girls who disobey their mommies get?”

You snuffled before you nodded shyly. “They get spanked?”

She sighed, still looming over you. “Was that a question or an answer?”

“Bad girls get spanked, Mommy,” you said. You attempted it to be firm, but it sounded more pathetic than anything else.

Natasha wiped her fingers under your eyes, and when she pulled away her pale thumb was streaked with black. That’s when you remembered that you put on makeup right before you left the house that morning, desperate to please Natasha and have her give you some off-handed compliment on your eyeliner or highlight. That seemed to have backfired, though.

God, you must’ve looked like such a mess: pink lip gloss smeared all over the lower half of your face, eyeliner and mascara running down your cheeks. Normally you’d try to hide your fucked up makeup, but right then you didn’t feel so insecure. Regardless of the status of your setting spray (which apparently needed replacing), Natasha continued to look at you like you were the prettiest little thing in the world, like you were the only thing that mattered to her in the universe. In that moment, you believed her.

As she manhandled you into position (you were so worn out it was hard to move, hard to do anything on your own. You felt  _so fucking helpless_  and it only made it so much  _better_ ) her hands roamed your body. It was tender, sweet…until they start massaging your already irritated ass (the thread count in her sheets weren’t exactly five-star-hotel-level quality).

“You ready?” she asked, rubbing small circles into your hips.   
  
“Yes, Mommy.”

“I’m just going to give you six spanks - three on each cheek - okay, baby girl?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Oh, and don’t forget to thank me for each one.”

Oh  _fuck_. You had been dreaming of this, wanting this, since you were…what, sixteen? Fifteen, maybe? It was the thing you got off to when no other video seemed to do the trick, when playlists or sexting random people on AOL or anime fanfiction couldn’t cut it anymore. It was what you thought about when clients told you to film yourself getting off, the fantasy that you had desperately been searching for on erotica websites and deep in the online kink scene since you were in middle school.

And now, it was all coming true.

You were about to consider the existence of a god and why she would bless you like this when the first spank hit you, grounding you back into the moment.

“ _One_ , thank you Mommy.”

“ _Two_ , thank you Mommy.”

“ _Three_ , thank you Mommy.”

The next ones happened quickly. If it wasn’t obvious before, the actions revealed that Natasha was definitely experienced in this. They were far enough apart to where anticipation could build, but not too close for you to tense up. It was amazing, euphoric. You’d never been on drugs, never even stole your little sister’s Adderall to help you study, but this was exactly what you’d expect them to feel like.

But maybe drugs could never live up to the high that Natasha had gotten you on.

Your body felt limp, unable to move and unable to form a coherent thought. Time both stood still and moved too fast, a feeling that makes you dizzy. Maybe time doesn’t matter at all, the things you feel are all about  _NatashaNatashaNatasha_. You’d had sex before, sure. You have a metric, have things you like and dislike, know what to do and when and all that stuff. You’ve had sex with women before, too. The sex was good, very very good- no,  _great_  sex.

This didn’t feel like any of the sex you’ve had, though. In fact, it didn’t feel like sex at all. It’s some whole other experience entirely, some sort of metamorphosis. Each time she touched you, made you moan or cry out or cum you’re a whole new woman reborn from pleasure and pleasure alone.

You could feel Natasha’s lips on your temple, above your eyebrows, on your right check. “Hey, baby,” you heard her say. “Honeybee, you good?”

A beat passes before you replied.

“Yeah, I’m-” You paused, trying to collect what little thoughts you could cohesively form. “I’m-”

Your brain felt fuzzy, overrun with stimulus. It was hard to form words, or do…anything…really. You could barely process what was going on, could barely feel Natasha wiping the fucked up make up off of your face or her pulling a tank top over your head or her helping you drink out of a water bottle like how farmer feed baby cows. Soon she stepped away for a moment and everything seemed to go quiet, then she began running a damp cloth over your body. It was comforting, but not as comforting as when she curled around you.

As she molded her body against yours, she murmured sweet nothings into your ear. Her strange East Coast/Russian accent blended together to become one, which became stronger as she dozed off. “You’re such a good girl, my sweet little girl. So good, you’re so good at taking my cock. I was so worried that ya wouldn’t be able to take it all. And when you took those spankin’s like that? I’m so proud of you…so proud. “

Her voice began fade into silence as you finally fell asleep, her face nuzzled into you neck and your face enveloped in her scent as your head rest on the (almost ridiculously comfortable) pillow. It was the end you always imagined, after every one-night stand and shitty lay you always wanted someone to hold you as you fell out of the sex high, someone who was willing to be nice to you after you fell asleep. It was the perfect end to the perfect night, even if you knew that you hadn’t yet washed the ruined makeup off your face, and would probably wake up with less than picture-perfect skin.


	3. part iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after an eventful night, there are things you have to accomplish at the library…alone.

You and Natasha stayed like that, her entire body wrapped tightly around you. After sleeping alone for basically the entirety of college, you enjoyed the closeness. It was hard to fall asleep, given how intimate you were to someone you’ve been fantasizing about for, you know, forever. Natasha fell asleep first, mouth pressed onto the back of your neck and hand laying across your waist. When her breath evened against your burning skin and you found the perfect angle to admire the posters on her wall, your own eyes droop closed (what can you say, being the little spoon makes you feel…safe. Also, you hadn’t had sex in a long time and you’re very tired of the mix of solitude and the post-orgasm haze).  

When your weekend morning alarm went off, it took everything inside of you not to throw it against the far wall. You played softball for one season in eighth grade and still had pretty good aim, you could probably hit the very center of a beat-up dart board about four feet up from the round. Luckily, you were able to constrain yourself enough to just hit snooze a few times.

Natasha, annoyed by your overly-adorable alarm song (hey, Ed Sheeran is a great artist to wake up to! The guitar calms you as the reality of the crushing weight of your own self-expectations crashes upon you), pushed you to get out of bed. “C’mon, babe you definitely have something to do. And that’s like, one of his worst songs and I need it to stop.”

You shrugged. The Google calendar alert that flashed across your screen notifies that you did, indeed, have to get up and do something. You groaned at the thought of being productive, flopping back down while you told yourself that Zizek would want you to do stay in bed.

Isn’t the only way to defeat capitalism to become unproductive? You’re studying for the next quiz, you tell yourself, even as Natasha starts pushing at the bottom of your spine to get you off the mattress. You’re just experimenting with different ways of destroying the most invasive and deadly economic system.  _Wait…_ is capitalism just an economic system, or is it more of a way of life? Can capitalism merely be described as an organizational system and a way to categorize the exchange of goods and services for monetary compensation without influence from government(s)? And like, do humans control the market, or the does the market simply own us like little pawns or a bunch of dumb, yappy puppies? What even is the market? Is the market a finite thing or is it some indescribable, infinite theory? Is it, like the universe, becoming infinitely larger by the minute?

Finally, you sat up, discontented by your own incredibly existential train of thought. As you got up and stretched, you could feel your worn muscles aching and joints popping obscenely loudly. As you bent to crack your back, a dull but satisfying pain started to spread through your body. You couldn’t tell if it was Natasha’s sub-par bed frame or her extraordinary sex kills; either way, though, you’re going to need some painkillers before you leave.  

Searching for clothes was…much harder than you anticipated. The pink cotton underwear and matching lace bralette you had pulled on in the middle of the night stood out against the grey cinder block walls, the smoke stains on the ceiling, the deep brown floors. Starkest of all, you were an anomaly amongst the piles and piles of dark clothes. Like a sunflower that’s sunken down to the bottom of the ocean, a ray of sunshine deep within a cave, a small baby animal stuck in a concrete cage.

Still - for whatever reason - you couldn’t find your clothes from the day previous. You would’ve screamed if it wouldn’t further disturb the half-asleep Nat. Why didn’t you just bring clothes with you, you  _knew_  were going to be staying over! You even thought far ahead enough to wear a matching underwear set. But no! No, of course you couldn’t just pack an extra skirt and tank or top or something else in your bag. Or even just a toothbrush, or floss, or some fucking gum, because of  _course_  you were out of gum. Of course, you were.

_Good job, scholar._

After ten minutes of desperate, fruitless searching, you finally accepted your fate of wearing Natasha’s clothes for the day. Sighing, you grabbed a pair of (hopefully) clean workout shorts and a worn hoodie from a band you’ve never heard of and take them into the bathroom to shower.

It was stereotypical, something out of a scene in a shitty romance movie: You wear her clothes as a sign you’re really in love or something, and then she sees how hot you look in clothes you’d normally never be caught dead in, then she fucks you nice and slow with one of those cute white strap ons while she moans into your ear everything she wants to do to you.

Maybe she won’t be fucking you, maybe you’ll  _ride_  her dick, or thigh, or her fingers so she can maintain a good look at your in her soft sweatshirt, or maybe-

_Fuck_ , the short and hot shower needed to turn into a long and cold one  _real_ quick. A long one. A very, very long one. That also needs to be cold. Did you mention that it needed to be long? And freezing?

When you trekked into the kitchen, you found the cupboards mostly empty. You were able to track down some bread to make toast and discover an egg in the back of the fridge, so you shouldn’t have been be excruciatingly hungry until you could get back to your food-filled apartment. You could pick up a snack on the way to the library if you get hungrier, anyway _. Everything should be fine. It’s fine! Everything is fine_. You even found some pepper and rosemary, that  _had_  to be a good sign.

About halfway through your tiny (and minimally satisfying) meal, Natasha emerges from the bathroom (that’s weird, considering you never noticed her come out of the bedroom). Her sides were fixed, and she had makeup on. Nice makeup on. The soft orange eyeshadow, white eyeliner, blush, bright highlighter, and pink lipstick made her look…sweet, kind, approachable. Her usual outfit had been replaced with black dress pants, black heels, a black dress shirt, and a burnt orange cardigan. You’d guess she’d be dressing for work, or an internship. You watch her closely as she moved behind you and wraps her arms around your waist. Natasha rested her chin on your elbow and pouts, silently asking for a bite of your breakfast like a pitiful dog.                         .

Reluctantly, you broke off a piece and fed it to her. She grinned as she chews, then kissed your fingertips as she swallowed. “That’s good,” she mumbled.

“Th-thanks,” you managed to get out, still inert at the feeling of her lips on such sensitive skin. In that moment parts of that night flashed in front of your eyes, including when she shoved four fingers into your mouth and told you to prep them for when they’d be inside you. You stuff the last of the bread and egg into your mouth to stop yourself from saying something stupid, sexual, or both. Also, from moaning. But mostly from talking and embarrassing yourself.

Sweet Jesus, you needed to get out of there.

Natasha still hadn’t moved from behind you and pressed her crotch into your bruised ass as she speaks. “You look amazing in my clothes,” she whispered in your ear, nibbling at your earlobes. It was hard to moan and chew at the same time, but she still got the picture as you choked on your half-chewed breakfast. Natasha giggled, a stark contrast to the heat behind her voice. “Look almost as pretty as you did last night,” it sent shivers down your spine. “All spread out and begging for me to touch you.”

You swallowed and whimpered, reminded of the night you two spent together. More memories flooded your brain all at once:

Her standing over you as you babbled for her to  _“take it, take it Natasha it’s yours it’s all yours please take it_.” Her barely touching you with a vibrator while she mumbles how cute you look when you’re a struggling, desperate mess. Her complimenting your high-pitched whines when you’re begging for her to fuck you again, and again, and again and…

“Natasha, please,” you pleaded. You didn’t want to pull away, too entranced with the thought of more time along with Natasha. Still, if you had a sliver of a chance of getting done what needed to be done that day, Natasha would’ve had to let you go first. “I need to go study at the library.”

Natasha stopped peppering kisses on your neck and shoulder to smirk. “Oh, please. You have a whole day off, and I don’t have to leave for work for another hour. We can afford to spend a little more together.”

You sighed as you scrunched your eyes shut and bite your bottom lip. You wanted that so much, so  _fucking_  much, but that study session wasn’t a regular one that you can just blow off. You couldn’t just push this work aside and make up the time missed the next day.

That day was that time where you look at all the commissions people have applied for and pick the ones you want to do. You normally only did it once a month, but your rent was almost due, along with student loans and some repairs required around your apartment and you were anticipating your mother’s birthday gift costing a lot (on account of your guilt) and you were hoping to buy some new sticky notes and your favorite pens were almost out of ink and-

In short, you needed money and you needed it  _now._

That was usually a thing you make into a little time with just yourself; you made some sort of day of it. You’d go to the library, pick one of those secluded rooms where no one can bug you for a few hours, put on the large headphones you only use for when you get super intense in your studying, and listen to your favorite music. You’d track everything in gorgeous marble-patterned notebook you use especially for planning commissions, with some inspiration quote in golden lettering along the front. In it, you’d track stuff props needed, when you’d do the commissions, how much money you’d charge, if there was anything that money needed to go to, if you have to spend anything to buy something specific, and so on.

It was like the calm before the storm of which is taking lots of lots of nude photos and videos of yourself.

All of this means you had to put your foot down and turn down whatever Natasha wanted so you could leave. “Nat, seriously. I’ll be back by,” you checked the clock on your phone.  _Fuck_ , it was already nine fifteen. You wanted to be out of here ten minutes ago. “What time does your shift end?”

She shrugged, a little taken aback. “I dunno, like one or two this afternoon. Two fifteen at the latest.”

“I’ll be back before two, I promise.”

Natasha looked you up and down, eyebrows furrowed with concern. She’d never seen you like this in the short time she’d known you. She could feel you were tense,  _incredibly_  tense. Sensing something was off, she dropped it and backed off. “O-okay. I’ll see you then.”

You smiled, grateful for her not pressing you on why you seem so pressed. At some point, you’d need to explain to her what you were doing, what you did for a living - especially if this relationship was going where you thought (hoped) it is. But not right then. You’d know when the right time is, and that wasn’t in Natasha’s kitchen with your heart racing. Maybe once you figured out her stance on sex work. But how could you weave that into a conversation?

_Hey babe, before we start officially dating, I just wanted to ask you about SESTA/FOSTA, the decriminalization of sex work, and material autonomy? What’s your stance on camming as sex work?_

Maybe you could relate this back to what you were supposed to be teaching her, sneak it into a mini-lesson or something like that. Butler’s talked about sex work, so have a bunch of other people. Maybe those people were queer theorists or media studies scholars, but they were still  _people_  talking about  _sex work_  in a context  _at least_  loosely related to post-modernism! Just because those people wrote obscure papers or dissertations from small college in the middle of nowhere didn’t mean their opinions on sex work didn’t matter! But those papers were all probably about prostitution, or escorting, or the  _phrase_  “sex work.” None of them about camming or selling private Snapchats and nudes or being commissioned for special videos (which included anything from getting yourself off with a hairbrush or eating cheeseburgers until you throw up). None of them exactly matched up to what you needed to know, making your inquiry that much more complicated.

Still, you could almost imagine the short-answer questions now:

_What would [insert author here] say about “modern” sex work verses “old school” sex work? What does newer forms of sex work say about the way capitalism forces us to adapt the ways in which we are productive? What has changed in sex work since its origin? What hasn’t? Why do some disagree with postmodernists stance that the dollar is the most powerful force in the world, whether dissenters believe that racism, sex, or gendered violence is more powerful? How does the frequent use of “porn” as a metaphor show how postmodernists view porn and the way we relate to it? Should porn ever be used as a metaphor? If no, what should take its place?_

Grabbing your backpack and phone on the way out the door, you started on the twenty-minute walk to the library. The commute was mostly barren of people, leaving you to the thoughts whirring around your brain.

By the time you’d tripped five (5) times, you’re cursing yourself for nothing taking the bus. Why would you ever need so much time to  _think?_ It’s just thinking!

_Process_  might be a better word, though. That girl back there fucked you so good you’d never be able to sleep with anyone else again without measuring them against the night before. You’d never be able to get yourself off without seeing her when your eyelids flutter closed from pleasure. That type of experience just doesn’t happen without changing a woman. Worse, you’d gotten this little baby ache in your sternum and shakiness in your hands that always happened when you had a crush.  _Why couldn’t you ever see pretty girls without reconsidering your entire life story?_

As you kicked a rock over a tree stump, you tried to remember that she seemed into you  _too_. This wasn’t like in tenth grade when you were drooling over that super popular senior girl and it turned out she just wanted to use you for an AP Calc project. This wasn’t some unrequited love story. So why are you so fucking  _nervous?_

Oh. Right. Your profession (or, “profession” as some people have called it in poorly-worded anonymous messages on Tumblr or with fake emails).

Once you stepped inside the library, you found your favorite spot (close to the vending machines and bathrooms) and started working. Once the door had been locked and the headphones were on, you opened your laptop. Slowly, as your email loaded, you saw a notification of a text from Natasha.

You looked behind you on instinct, even though you were completely alone. When all your eyes saw was a wall covered in poorly-applicated beige paint, you sighed and clicked on the little grey box.

As the text loaded, all you could see is that there’s an attachment, and it caused your heart rate to increase dramatically. It felt like a forever later when you finally opened your scrunched eyes, and another trillion years until the photo loaded.

It was a picture of her holding the pink panties you forgot to grab (in your defense, the shorts you snatched from her bedroom floor had built in underwear) back at Natasha’s apartment with the caption  _“Looks like you forgot something…you gonna come back and get it?”_

God, you hadn’t even opened a single commission email, which is the only thing you had intended on doing that day. You should answer at least a few before you text her back…

But a hot girl was flirting with you! Money and paying your rent be damned, you needed to focus on getting laid again.

You hold your breath as your typed, as if filling your lungs would cause your fingers to lose the ability to type.

_I don’t know._

You bit your lip as you texted her again.

_Why don’t you keep them as a trophy?_

You opened one email while you wait for her reply. It was about scat. You specifically said that you don’t do that. Deleted. Immediately after you got a reply from Natasha.

_Don’t be naughty with me or I’ll gag you with them._

Before you could reply you get  _another_  text.

_Or is that what you want?_

Um, yes. It was what you wanted. It’s all you wanted. You mean, it’s one of  _many_ things you wanted. But you  _did_  want it. Since you weren’t physically with Natasha, it’s easy to make your replies a little bolder.

_If I did want it, would you give it to me?_

You quickly opened another email. This one was easy, just some really artful nudes with your stretch marks on display. Maybe some cool-colored mood lighting. You replied with the normal stuff (the payment, when you’ll have them done, etc). Once that email was sent, you saw another text.

_I can give you anything you want, princess_

That made you shiver, your hands shaking and breath hitching as you reply.

_Anything?_

You didn’t have time to open another email before you saw Natasha’s next texts.

_Anything at all, Princess_

_You just gotta tell me what you want._

You felt like God is speaking to you directly. Surely this woman was Heaven sent, given to you by the Holy Father as a gift for all your hard work over the years, or something.

_But how am I supposed to talk if I’m gagged?_

With that sent, received, and read, you closed the chat before Natasha could reply. If you just opened five more emails, then you could answer. That’s good, right? That’s a good way to keep yourself focused. Four answered emails, two replies from customers, and one blocked user later, you found it in yourself to open the texts from Natasha again.

_Oh, really? Is that what you want?_

_Not gonna answer me?_

_Looks like you’re actually studying_

_what a good girl you are_

_Bad news:_

_I have nothing to do without you here bc I finished everything early_

_so I guess I’ll text you what I want_

A sharp inhale of breath pierced the stale air, scaring you.  _Oh wait_ , you realized.  _That was you._

_Want so much from you. Wanna sit on your face, I bet you’re the champ of eating pussy, aren’t you? So pretty and eager to please. I’d love to see you blow a strap on. Had a girl do that once a while ago, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as you, though. Bet you’d look a billion times better with spit dripping down your face while I shove my cock down your throat. Maybe tie your hands behind your back with those panties you left me. You look so cute tied up._

You nearly choked on the water you started chugging in an empty effort to make yourself calm down. Oh fuck.

That’s when you saw another message from her.

_I know you’re reading these, little one. Don’t run from Mommy._

You sucked in a breath, unable to respond. It took forever for you to craft your text, in the meantime you tried to switch back to your inbox to see if there was anything you could do to ground yourself.

No such luck, though.

_Tell me more, Mommy. Please._

Natasha happily obliged.

_You know what my absolute biggest fantasy is? Me and some other top just domming the hell out of you. Passing you around, leaving bruises all of your pretty little body.  You’d be so cute, just mewling and whining under us. Maybe we’d both fuck you at the same time, stretching your pretty little holes to the max._

This woman was about to be the death of you.

_I’d love that, Mommy_

After you saw that message had been sent, you started to pack up your stuff. You texted her you were about to start your walk home, but before you could stash your phone in your backpack you saw another text.

_Don’t worry baby. Mommy’s got you. I’m right outside._

And when you stepped out the front doors, she was. You blushed when you saw her, clamoring into the front seat with your knees nervously knocking themselves together. You were about to stutter out a “thank you” before she lunged forward to kiss you deeply. It was hard, aggressive, dominating. As she pulled away, she bit your bottom lip before she turned back to the wheel. “You’ve been bad, baby.  _So_  bad.”

You didn’t speak as she sped away, making your way back to her apartment in record time. Each stop light, her fingers seemed to worm their way up your thighs and tease at the hem of your shorts; each time the light went back to green, and she pulled away, you’d whimper as loudly and lewdly as possible. In all honesty, you were hoping to get her attention. Whether or not it would end how you wanted it to be questionable, but it was worth a shot. You would try anything at that point, to be close to her. To feel the softness of her cardigan, to unbutton her shirt, to unzip her pants.

When you made it her front door, you could barely make it inside before Natasha had you pressed against a wall. She slipped your backpack onto the slightly-warped hard wood carefully, not wanting your laptop to break.

You gasped as she ripped the shorts from your body. “Oh, God, Nat- “

She placed her left pointer finger over your lips as two fingers from her right slid into your dripping center. “Sh, baby girl, call me Mommy,” she whispered before she dropped to her knees.

Natasha didn’t start with any niceties, no prepping, rather she immediately began sucking on your clit and curling the now-three fingers inside of you. You wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to do  _something,_  but the combination of shock and the proximity to the front door made your mouth silent as you shook violently. You’d stuffed the sleeve in Natasha’s hoodie as you shrieked from your almost-too-quick orgasms, the fabric muffled your hearty screams as Natasha continued to fuck her fingers into you.

“N- Mommy, mommy please stop,” you begged. “Please stop I can’t, Mommy I can’t take it!”

Nat just laughed, never slowing down. “C’mon, princess. If you come one more time like this for me, I’ll stop. Okay, baby girl? Just  _one_  more…”

You’d had both hands covering your face now, your cheeks hotter than the face of the sun as your whole body convulsed. For a moment the feeling you had to piss cuts through the fog that had flooded your meninges, and then you felt a wash of pleasure wave through you that made you collapse against the wall.

“Hey, baby girl,” you heard Natasha coo in a metaphysical plane not your own. “Hey, princess it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

It took a few moments for you to come back, for your vision to stabilize. When you were finally able to see the woman in front of you, the first thing you noticed was her cheeks and lips and chin and nose glistening wet. While you looked confused, a shit-eating grin broke out on Natasha’s face.

“Was that your first time squirting?” She asked, her voice just above a whisper and full of excitement.

You nodded. “Y-yeah.”

Her grin only got bigger as she picked you up and brought you into her bedroom, sheets just as messy as when you had left them that morning. The uneven fabric was uncomfortable as she dropped you onto them, but then was no time to complain. No, you were smart enough to know as Nat held up a toy in each hand that you were  _not_  in a position to grumble about the sex-dirty sheets or protest to being thrown or grumble that this woman  _seduced_  you into coming home from the library early that day.

“Which toy you want, sweetheart?”

They were both silicone cocks, the one in her right hand a glittery pink while the toy in her left a matte black. The pink one was sleek and long, but the black one was truly the one that caught your attention. It was girthy, veiny. Your pussy already ached looking at it, and you squeezed your thighs together for relief as you imagined Natasha fucking it in and out of you at a pace that would leave you bruised and breathless.

Natasha noticed this right away. “Aw, is my little princess feeling greedy today?” She crawled on top of you after pulling on the strap and securing the toy in place. “You  _sure_  you want this one baby girl? You  _sure_  you want me to fuck you with something so big…could your tiny little cunt even take it?”

All you could do was whimper.

“Good girl,” she purred. “This is gonna look so cute covered in your cum.”


End file.
